


Sehnsucht

by which_chartreuse



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Can I wrangle this many alternative universes?, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Duality, F/M, Familial Love, Gen, Husband-Wife Relationships, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Relationships, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Multiverse, Other, Parent-Child Relationship, Prophetic Dreams, References to the book, Romantic love, Self-Hatred, Shared Dreams, The Man in the High Castle - Philip K. Dick, Vague References, Why Did I Write This?, alternative universe, alternative universes making themselves known through dreams, alternative universes out the wazoo, alternative universes within an alternative universe, dichotomy, philia and storge, possibility, references to the whole series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/which_chartreuse/pseuds/which_chartreuse
Summary: Everyone dreams, whether they remember or not. Not everyone knows a dream might be another world, another life. Not everyone knows a nightmare can be real.---Sehnsucht -(n.) "the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what" [C.S. Lewis]; a yearning for a far, familiar, un-earthly land one can identify as one's home. - other-wordlyOR(n.) An intense yearning for something far off and indefinable.ORGerman /n./ zeen-zukht. Life longings, intense desire for alternative pathsand states; lit. an 'addiction' (Sucht) to longing/pining (Sehn). - Dr. Tim LomasORIn psychology"...its six core characteristics:utopian conceptions of ideal development;sense of incompleteness and imperfection of life;conjoint time focus on the past, present, and future;ambivalent (bittersweet) emotions;reflection and evaluation of one's life; andsymbolic richness." - wikipedia---
Relationships: Helen Smith/John Smith, Joe Blake/Juliana Crain, John Smith/Nicole Dormer, Juliana Crain/Frank Frink, Juliana Crain/John Smith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jandjsalmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jandjsalmon/gifts).



> I was not intending to write this, and then I was not intending to share it. In a period of major transition for me I chose to go all in on The Man in the High Castle, even though it was sometimes deeply unsettling. In a time of heavy stress I added this beautiful and horrifying visual story to my psyche and the imagery of my dreams was often affected by what I watched. Some of what follows is a recounting of dreams I had. Other parts are images and ideas that came to me while I was awake. Now that I have moved a thousand miles away and settled in a strange isolation, I thought I might as well share what was there. 
> 
> If you are interested, the soundtrack for this writing was primarily Samuel Barber's String Quartet in B Minor, Op. 11 (you will probably recognize the Adagio for Strings).
> 
> Also, to clarify: jandjsalmon did not request this, and is/was unaware that I would be gifting this to them. They were part of what influenced me to watch MitHC, though, so I wanted to say some sort of "Thank You." So, Thank You. <3

_Mono no aware_ – Tagomi

He dreams of the baby more than the rest. Of his grandchild who is not really his grandchild, with whom he shares a name. He dreams of the little boy, and his mother who is so familiar and yet so undeniably different from the Juliana he has known in this world.

He dreams of his wife and his son also. But almost every night, now, he dreams of the growing child, living in a world so much freer than this.

And though he mourns that no such child will be born in his world – no one will carry on the legacy of his name – Tagomi is also proud to fight for a peace of his own.

 _Vergangenheitsbewältigung –_ Smith

She is everything the Aryan is supposed to be, from the golden blonde hair to the blue-grey eyes. The pale, pale skin. She looks about the age of the first Lebensborn, but she could just as easily have been a stolen child, or a war child.

It doesn't matter, though, really. She looks the part and she's passed the tests, or she wouldn't be shivering here before John, watching him with those pale, fearful eyes.

He removes his gloves, his hat, hands them to the guard at the door before it closes behind him. She flinches as the lock clicks, but he stalks forward, drawing her eyes back from the door. She shivers, but the gooseflesh doesn't rise on her arms until he's right beside her. Until his warm finger traces the jut of her collar bone.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

She nods, though her eyes never shift away from his.

“Are you frightened?” he draws his hand away and she winces as if in anticipation of being struck. But John has no intention of striking her; she's so obviously terrified already. Her eyes immediately seek him out when they reopen.

She doesn't respond but to continue shivering and staring.

“Are you here by choice?”

She seems to shrink at the question, and he sees now that something of the luminous quality of her look comes from the tears forming along her lashes.

“Are you here by choice?” he repeats, enunciating carefully, taking her by the shoulders and holding her at arms length.

“Tell me what to say,” she whispers, full of fear and trembling in his grip.

She looks the part, and she's here in this room, waiting for him. But the fear is all wrong, and what it's doing to him is all wrong. And the purple bruising along her jaw is all wrong. And even as John leans into her to taste the tears as they stream down the pallid face, he forces himself awake.

“What is it, John?” Helen asks, rolling towards him in the dark.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

But he knows there's another world out there, darker than his own.

 _Saudade_ – Helen

It's clearly Juliana, but in a way Helen has never seen her before. Her hair is blonde instead of dark, and she wears a fur stole wrapped around her and walks as though she strolled straight out of a fashion magazine, like the ones at the beauty parlor.

“Helen, come with me,” she insists as she takes Helen's hand and whisks her along in the wake of satin and fur.

“What's- what's going on?” Helen asks, struggling to keep pace while Juliana's grip seems to crush her fingers.

“It's Thomas, Helen,” she replies with another tug at her arm. “It's Thomas, and we need to go now.”

“What about Tom?” Helen is struggling to understand, struggling to keep up in these unfamiliar clothes, on precarious little heals.

And then Juliana spins her by the hand, whirls her behind a velvet curtain, presses so close.

“You're a good woman, Helen, and Thomas is a good boy. And you both deserve so much better than this world, Helen.”

And Helen can see now that the blonde hair is a wig as it is wrenched back by invisible hands. And the fur stole is a wolf, gnawing Juliana's neck. And the furrows in her brow begin to crack, and Juliana's whole face falls away.

Helen wakes with a gasp, reaching across the empty bed for John, who isn't there. He isn't due back for two more days, and Thomas is away with the Scouts. But there's something wrong, even as Helen regains her breath and steadies herself, sitting up against the headboard.

There's someone else in the house.

Helen reaches for the Louisville Slugger she keeps between the bed and the nightstand when John is away, and creeps down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Geez, Mom!” Thomas exclaims with a start when he emerges from behind the refrigerator door.

“Oh Tom,” Helen cries, dropping the bat, and takes her son in her arms and holds tight, stroking his hair like he's a little boy again.

“It's alright, Mom,” Thomas promises, squirming in her grip, but she doesn't let go.

“It's alright,” he repeats, quieter, and wraps his own arms around his mother.

 _Wabi sabi –_ Frank

Frank brushes his thumb over the little cleft in Juliana's chin, and smiles at the way her nose crinkles in response.

“Stop that,” she sleepily complains, but he does it again. Then he leans in and kisses her chin.

He strokes her cheek, pink and puffy with sleep. His fingers slip through her hair, catching in tangles. She rolls away from him with a groan of protestation, and he leans in again to kiss her shoulder. He slides down beside her, fits himself to her like a nesting spoon and cups a breast in his hand.

“What's gotten into you?” Juliana asks. Quietly demands, as she looks back toward him, leaning into his embrace.

“I had a dream,” Frank says, kissing the slight hollow of her temple.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, leaning into his touches, his kisses.

“About you.”

“Hmm,” she hums and clasps her hand over his.

“We were divorced, and you were dating an Italian... And he made love to you, and you slit his throat.”

Juliana tenses beneath Franks hands, and she does a better job of finding his expression now she's fully awake.

“And that made you – what? Horny?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says, pressing against her again, nipping at her ear.

“How?!” she demands, incredulous and pushing away.

“Well...” Frank tries to sort out his feelings and the swiftly fading memory of the dream. “We aren't divorced. And you aren't dating an Italian. And I'm fairly certain if I made love to you right now, you wouldn't cut my throat...”

His hands slide along her torso to the hem of her nightgown and he watches her eyelashes flutter. But she manages to keep her lips pursed in a hard line a few moments longer before letting a breathy “We'll see” escape them.

 _Dasein –_ Juliana Crain – _Yūgen_

Juliana is outside of herself. She can feel everything and see everything that's happened to her – that is still happening – at the same time.

She can feel the splitting pain in her head, feel the slow trickle of blood from a cut there. She can feel the confusion that comes with the pain, and hear herself whispering half-formed sentences that trail off into nonsense. She can feel the heavy numbness of her legs. The brush of the washcloth and the sting of soap over it all.

And she can see the bruises forming all along her body, the scrapes at her palms and knees. She can see the water washing over her mottled skin, redirecting around old scar tissue and pooling in new wounds. She can see the red drops fall into the basin beneath her, turning the collecting water pink.

And she can see his hands, too. Where they hold her steady. Where they clutch at the rough cloth and wash her scrapes clean. Where his fingers linger over the place where there was once a hole in her shoulder. Where they brush along a scar that traces the length of her spine.

She can feel his arms close around her and lift her from the water. Feel him hold her up while water and blood funnel down the drain. Feel the strain of him against her when he gently lowers her again. Feel the spray of clean, cool water against her skin, rinsing the remaining soap away.

Juliana hears herself continue to murmur, hears the broken conversation she seems to be having with no one and doesn't understand. She hears herself and sees him listening. Watches him cleanse her and care for her. Feels his hands on her skin, around her arms, against her scalp.

He wraps her in a new towel, bright white and soft. He rubs her dry and listens to her murmur, and presses his face into her damp hair. His arms close around her again, and he pauses, just holding her against his chest. And then she is silent.

He lifts her like a father carrying a sleeping child to bed. Like a husband carrying a bride across a threshold. Like a lover... And she can see her own eyes watching him as if she were inside him looking out at herself.

She can see him looking back at her and feel him lay her amongst the blankets. She feels the tears in her eyes and the pressure of his lips against her cheek. She hears him speak soothing words and sees them both succumb to emotion.

He watches her cry, and bring her arm across her eyes, blocking out the world. He pulls the blankets around her and settles on the floor at her bedside. He strokes her hair and takes her hand, and when she squeezes his fingers he squeezes back.

She whispers, “I am broken.”

“You are beautiful,” he replies.

“I am broken.”

“You are strong,” he insists.

“I have nothing...”

He kisses her lips then.

“You are everything.”

Juliana wakes with a lurch, rolling to the floor and scrambling for the toilet. She wretches miserably over the bowl, her skin crawling with the memory of his eyes, his hands, his lips upon her.

Worlds away, another John Smith wakes alone, half hard and unsettled by a lingering feeling of connection to – a love for – a woman he has never seen. It has been nearly twenty years since he lost his wife and son, but in the dazed aftermath of a dream he recognizes a blooming hope. He holds in his mind the image of a broken body made beautiful by his devotion, until the oncoming light of morning rouses him into another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> As mentioned above, I have just moved a little over a thousand miles across the country only to end up temporarily homeless in the middle of a pandemic (don't worry, I have shelter and supplies (and wifi access!); I am just feeling quite displaced and uncertain about everything at the moment). I was already having a lot of stress dreams with wild imagery in the lead up to my move, but I started having MitHC influenced dreams, too. So yeah. I have more ideas about what came up in some of the dreams, and I might add to this at some point. But I really meant to be working on the Lenny/Midge follow-up to Broken Colour when this happened...
> 
> Anyway. I hope you found something to appreciate in here, if not exactly enjoy. I tried to tag the heck out of it for safety and clarity, but please let me know if I should add anything, or if anything remains desperately too vague. Also, if anyone else has had crazy High Castle dreams, please feel free to share! 
> 
> Again, thank you (:


End file.
